Regulus of Hogwarts: Lord of the Stars

Chapter 444 The Ordinary Dumbledore

Regulus's spectator gaze was too obvious; he made no attempt to conceal it.

Aberforth looked over, sized him up, frowned, and then turned to Dumbledore: "Hmph, this one doesn't talk much this time, better than the last one who could brag."

Last time, that guy talked to me all night about international affairs, and before I even had a chance to sit down, he was telling me how to run a bar.

Dumbledore coughed lightly: "The last one was a scribe from Wizengamor; he wasn't very good at conversation."

"Wisengemo?" Aberforth scoffed. "Those bums who can only read official documents, what do they know? They can't even recognize all the drinks in a bar, and they want to teach me how to run a bar?"

Dumbledore's lips twitched.

He was also from Wizengamot, and even the chief wizard. He swallowed the words back and sighed.

Regulus found it amusing, his gaze shifting back and forth between the two old men before finally settling on Aberforth.

Once you've done something you shouldn't have done to the goats, you'll know what Wizengamo will do.

Aberforth snorted, pulled a rough ceramic bottle from under the bar, uncorked it, poured half a cup of murky liquid into a dusty glass, and pushed it toward Dumbledore.

"Drink up, homemade gin, you can't find this anywhere else."

Dumbledore looked down at the liquid in the glass.

It was cloudy and slightly greenish; it smelled of a mixture of pine needles and alcohol; there were faint sediments at the bottom of the glass that hadn't been properly filtered.

He picked it up, took a sip, and maintained a normal expression for half a second before subtly changing it.

Blue eyes blinked twice, lips tightened and then loosened, Adam's apple bobbed, and he struggled to swallow the sip of wine.

"...The flavor is very unique."

Aberforth sneered: "Unique? You mean it tastes awful."

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes slightly, neither nodding nor shaking his head, his Adam's apple bobbing as he suppressed the nausea rising within him.

"From now on, I'll only sell this here. People who come here can only drink this; they have no other choice."

Aberforth slammed the earthenware bottle down on the bar, stared at Dumbledore with his blue eyes, then poured himself a glass, took a big gulp, and remained expressionless.

"If you want butterbeer, go to Honeydukes; if you want to flirt with Rosmerta at Three Broomsticks, turn left as you exit."

Regulus's lips twitched.

They only sell the worst-tasting ones; customers want something better? They can find it elsewhere.

This business philosophy is so pure that it makes you wonder how this bar survives.

It probably refers to the business of the Order of the Phoenix. The Pighead Bar is the Order's secret outpost, intelligence station, and sanctuary. No matter why you come in, you have to order a drink.

Not ordering is disrespecting the boss, and disrespecting the boss is disrespecting Dumbledore. As for whether he can drink it or not, the boss can drink it anyway.

Everyone who runs a monopoly is arrogant. Aberforth probably didn't know the word "monopoly," but he understood the business very well.

"Speak," Aberforth said, resting his hands on the bar counter, his blue eyes fixed on Dumbledore, his tone unfriendly, "What's the matter this time? What do you need my help with this time? Is someone else going to die?"

He began reciting Dumbledore's titles with obvious annoyance: "Albus Dumbledore, First Wizard, Head Wizard of Wizengamor, Headmaster of Hogwarts, President of the International Confederation of Wizards."

"What's the point of having so many titles and sitting here? Every time you come here, you're cleaning up other people's messes. Whose mess is it this time?"

Dumbledore looked up, his voice weary: "I was just passing through and wanted to see you."

Aberforth snorted heavily and turned his head away: "Passing by? Looking at me?"

He reached up and pulled another bottle of wine from the shelf, bit off the cork with his teeth, took a sip, and muttered, "Whatever. You never stay long after saying something like that."

Dumbledore opened his mouth.

Regulus turned his gaze, his vertical pupils gleaming with undisguised mockery, and the corners of his mouth curled up even higher.

Dumbledore sensed it, turned his head to look over, his blue eyes flashed, and he looked a little uncomfortable.

The greatest white wizard, revered by the international magical community, was rendered speechless by his own brother's retort, and then the boy saw right through him from head to toe.

He coughed lightly, trying to regain some composure: "Aberforth usually—actually, isn't this talkative."

Aberforth added coldly from the side, "You brought people here just to shut me up?"

Dumbledore shut his mouth.

He picked up his glass, took a sip, and then turned to Regulus, his blue eyes showing a hint of embarrassment mixed with a stubborn refusal to admit it: "He really isn't usually this talkative."

Regulus grinned and gestured with his chin toward Dumbledore.

You go ahead, I'll just take a look.

Dumbledore placed his glass back on the bar, his tone returning to its usual calm: "Aberforth, how's things at Hogsmeade lately? Anything unusual?"

Aberforth looked at him coldly: "Just ask what you want to ask. Don't try to beat around the bush with this principal's rhetoric. There are no students here to listen to your performance—are you even a student?"

He turned to Regulus and yelled, "Are you some damn student?"

Dumbledore's eye twitched.

Regulus didn't respond, and waved his hand at Aberforth, his expression unchanged.

You two continue, don't involve me.

Aberforth snorted, probably thinking there was no point in continuing the insults; his brother was thick-skinned and he could never be exposed no matter how much he cursed him.

He tidied up the cups on the bar, wrung out the rag, and then suddenly turned and walked towards the backyard.

"The goats haven't been fed yet, you two can stay here by yourselves."

He ripped open the curtain and disappeared behind the door leading to the backyard.

The goat chewing grass in the corner followed, its hooves clattering on the floor, and it ducked under the curtain.

The tavern fell silent.

Regulus turned his gaze from the goat to Dumbledore's face and teased, "Is this how your family treats guests?"

Dumbledore picked up the glass of Aberforth's wine, took a sip, and said in a relaxed tone, "He was just exercising his rights as a brother."

Regulus grinned: "What rights?"

Dumbledore's blue eyes curved behind his half-moon lenses: "For decades, it has been a constant reminder that I am just an ordinary person."

He stood up, went around behind the bar, bent down, and rummaged through the cabinet.

The place was a chaotic mess with its own unique style. Bread and cheese were mixed together with a half-open bottle of gin, and half-cut pickles sat on the cutting board, with bits of yesterday's stale butter stuck to the back of the knife.

Dumbledore found a gap among these things, pulled out the bread and cheese, and found a relatively clean knife.

The bread was cut crookedly, and the cheese was cut into uneven pieces. It was placed on a chipped earthenware plate and brought over to the table.

Regulus picked up a piece of bread and took a bite.

Hard, cold, rough, and dry, but edible.

He chewed on his bread, his gaze sweeping over the run-down tavern.

Crooked tables and chairs, a floor stained with decades of dirt, a wild boar head specimen with a vacant stare, and a few bundles of hay in the corner.

Dumbledore sat opposite him, looking quite at ease, as if this filthy, run-down tavern was his most comfortable place.

That's probably true.

In front of his brother, he didn't need to be the world's greatest white wizard; he only needed to be an old man who would talk back when he was challenged, feel embarrassed when he was exposed, and feel uncomfortable when his students saw his awkwardness.

"What are you looking at?" Dumbledore looked up, his blue eyes showing a hint of alertness.

Regulus looked away, picked up another piece of bread, and grinned. "It's nothing."

It was getting late when Aberforth returned from the backyard.

He glanced at the two people who were still at the bar, then at the half-eaten food on the bar, and snorted.

Then he took a rusty key from the wall, slid it across half the bar, and Regulus caught it.

"Upstairs, at the end of the corridor, the bed is broken, the bedding is old, take it or leave it."

He glared at Dumbledore again: "You know where you sleep."

Regulus stood up and went upstairs by himself, while Dumbledore remained sitting there.

As he passed by Aberforth, Aberforth didn't even look up, his voice hoarse, carrying a weary sarcasm: "So young, following him, don't expect anything good to come of it."

Regulus raised his chin, held up the key in his hand and waved it, then went upstairs without saying a word.

A small room at the end of the corridor.

Small and narrow, with a metal-framed bed by the window. The bedding was indeed old, but there was no musty smell. Although I said I didn't care whether I slept in it or not, I still washed it.

I don't know if they'll charge me for the room if I come with the old man. Anyway, he didn't bring any money, so the old man will pay for it.

He twitched the corner of his mouth, and a silent cleaning spell flicked from his fingertips, removing the grease stains from the key.

The walls were covered with faded wallpaper, and a chandelier hung overhead, its shade filled with dead insects. The light was so dim that it could barely illuminate the outlines of the furniture.

The window faces the back alley of Hogsmeade, with a view of the roof of Honeydukes in the distance, and further still, the towers of Hogwarts Castle, their hazy tips peeking out in the moonlight.

He stood by the window, wiping the dirt and grime off his long, silvery-white hair.

The fight on the wasteland had left me covered in dirt, and there were still a few bits of heather stuck in my hair. I patted them clean and washed my face.

Professor McGonagall's permanent transformation was indeed reliable. The scorch marks on the vest have been repaired, the scratches on the cuffs have disappeared, and the fabric is back to how it looked when I left this morning.

He took off his robe, shook it out, and hung it on the iron rack at the foot of the bed.

Aberforth's cursing came from downstairs, interspersed with the clanging of pots and pans.

Footsteps sounded at the door, and Dumbledore pushed the door open and came in.

He walked to the window, his back to the door, the moonlight shining on his white hair.

Regulus sat on the edge of the bed: "Your brother one."

Dumbledore turned around, a hint of amusement in his voice: "He's not actually a bad person."

Regulus didn't respond to that question, instead changing the subject: "What are the plans for tomorrow?"

Dumbledore turned around, raised an eyebrow, and a look of interest flashed in his blue eyes: "What do you want to do?"

"Let's go check out the werewolves."

Regulus got up and walked over, pushing the window open a crack. The night breeze blew in, ruffling his long, silvery-white hair.

"In that mining village north of Yorkshire, I did some work there recently, so I'm going to check out the results."

Dumbledore's eyes lit up.

Regulus didn't elaborate on what he had done, but with a smile on his lips and a relaxed tone, he said, "Tomorrow is the full moon."

"Okay," Dumbledore said cheerfully.

He remembered his previous conversation with Regulus about werewolves; the kid had probably been thinking about it all along.

He didn't ask for details, saying he'd find out tomorrow.

He nodded, turned and walked towards the door. When he reached the door, he turned back and winked: "Get some rest, Geralt."

"Good night, Professor." Regulus waved.

The door closed, and the footsteps faded into the distance in the corridor.

Regulus leaned against the headboard, listening to the sounds downstairs.

Aberforth was still tidying up downstairs, and the occasional clinking of cups and saucers could be heard, along with his muttering, probably still cursing Dumbledore.

After a moment of silence, he cursed a couple more times.

The beds at Pighead Bar were really bad; the springs were digging into my back.

Edgar Tomlin endured the full moon among werewolves, and the guardian spirit of Rigel planted an anchor deep within his soul.

We should have already survived one full moon last month, and tomorrow will be the second.

If the anchor point is successful, Edgar will be the first werewolf to remain conscious on a full moon night.

The application of the Guardian Will to werewolves, with its blue and white light and gentle power, is probably what Dumbledore would love to see most.

Although I've already made a good impression on the old man enough, and there's no need to add anything more, some things, once done, should be seen by others, especially by those who can understand them.

It was my first time to test the results of my experiment, and also to broaden the old man's horizons.

Regulus rolled over and closed his eyes.

I'm going to see the werewolf game tomorrow.

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